Читать книгу Shéri - Shéri Brynard - Страница 8

This is a happy moment. Now I can finally tell everyone about the people who helped me become who I am today.

Maybe I should start with the one of the most difficult parts, the story of Susan Hattingh, my piano teacher.

My mother and Mrs Hattingh’s husband were colleagues at the Bloemfontein Teachers College, after my mother resigned from Oranje Girls School. Mrs Hattingh, whom I called Juffrou Susan, also taught the piano to my sisters Marisa and the youngest, Zettie. I’d often listen to them at home and sing la, la, la when they were struggling while practising a piece.

Eventually I asked my mother whether I could also learn to play the piano. Mrs Hattingh agreed: “Bring her along; let’s see how it goes.”

I was so excited. She taught me the names of the notes; I really liked the sound of the black ones. It was one of the happiest moments when I learned to play a piece with an F-sharp. And later a G-sharp. And a B-flat.

Every member of our family, except my dad, could now play the piano. But then he told my mother that he’d always wanted to learn to play. He also wanted lessons!

So he went, too. Mrs Hattingh commented that she knew what all the Brynard hands looked like. My two sisters’ hands were made to play the piano. Mine were small. Like my feet. And Jerry Brynard had the biggest and hairiest hands of anyone she’d ever taught.

But my dad did not practise enough.

Mrs Hattingh was friendly and funny and very pretty. She loved everyone, her husband and two daughters and one son. But she had one peculiarity. She was terrified of driving. She did not want to learn to drive.

After a while she entered me for an item in the eisteddfod. But not my dad!

Much later, my mother told me, my dear teacher was more stressed about the eisteddfod than I was. She wasn’t stressed about the symbol I’d get; she just wanted me to be okay, because it is quite something to perform on stage at the Odeion School of Music.

Juffrou Susan told me to sit down on the piano stool and look at the adjudicators. As soon as the chief adjudicator nodded, I should place my hands on the keys and take a deep breath. The music I was about to play should then begin to sound in my head. While exhaling slowly, I should start playing. I should only think about the beautiful music, and what a wonderful experience it was to play such beautiful music.

Since then, whenever I had to do something new, I would follow those instructions carefully. It calmed me down. I didn’t chew my nails and I didn’t stress.

When I’d finished playing my piece, the audience gave me a long standing ovation, including the chief adjudicator, who even cried a little!

All the adjudicators were writing like mad, and eventually it was announced that I had been awarded an A+. My mother cried, and while she was wiping away her tears, I saw that one of her nails was bitten quite badly. And we were never allowed to do that!

One morning Mrs Hattingh went to have coffee with one of her daughters at Oliewenhuis, across the road from Oranje Girls’ School. Her daughter, who taught music at the school, had a free period. As they were walking back, a car came speeding down the road and hit her mother, my dear teacher.

When my mother told me about the accident that afternoon after college, I was heartbroken.

That evening I prayed very hard, and I knew that I wanted to visit my teacher every day in hospital. She was in ICU.

Only one visitor at a time was allowed to visit a patient in ICU.

My mother always went with me, but she waited outside while I went in to be with my dear Juffrou Susan.

I did not know what to do. I just stood there and loved her and wished that she’d get better. The machines and pipes and drips and bags attached to the bed and the smell of the disinfectants did not scare me, and there were zigzag patterns on TV screens.

I did not know what to do. I didn’t want her to die. Her lips were dry, I wanted to do something, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea to touch such a heavily bandaged person. From the expression on the nurse’s face, I realised that my teacher might die.

Sometimes I felt that I wanted to pray for her. Then I did. Very softly; I was talking to God.

One evening felt different. When I left her room, I told my mother that I’d said goodbye. We did not have to come again. Juffrou Susan died that night.

Her funeral was the saddest day I’d experienced up until then. The minister said she was with Jesus, and that she lived and was happy. And that one day we would see her again. Heaven sounded like it did in the Bible, but very far away.

I knew that I’d never want to take piano lessons with anyone else. And I never did. I’ve had my piano time with my dear teacher.

I enjoyed it and it was so beautiful. It was enough for me.

My mother

I dread the day that my mother dies. Every year she allows me to do more and more on my own, and I like that. But I don’t want to live without her.

My mother means the world to me. She is – mostly – patient, really loving and always supportive. She doesn’t push me to perform, and everything I achieve is a bonus for her. When I struggle with my weight because of eating the wrong things, she is very strict and confiscates my television remote so that I cannot watch my favourite soapies or even record them. But when I take control and eat wisely, my mom is proud of me.

So, if someone has a child with Down Syndrome, that mother should not feel sorry for the child and allow him or her to eat the wrong things. She must teach the child to eat the right food, even when she is not there.

Sometimes when a mother is pregnant with a baby who has Down Syndrome, she chooses to have an abortion, or after the child is born she decides to put it into an institution.

My take on this is: as people with Down Syndrome, we have a right to live. I feel like crying when I think about the little babies like me who are not given the right to live. We can live full lives and we can make a difference in the lives of others. I am very glad that my mother gave me such a chance. I’m also glad about all the opportunities I’ve had. The President’s Award that I received in Johannesburg from the Hamlet Foundation for people with disabilities is very dear to me, because I was honoured as the person who has done most for people with intellectual disabilities in South Africa. It made me realise that any person can make a difference, even those who are not as clever as others.

So, to every mother with a Down Syndrome child I’d like to say: do not throw away your child or kill it before it has been born. We are loveable children, even though we can be headstrong – extremely so, according to my mother! Do not give up hope too easily. Miss Spies, who was the principal of Oranje Girls School when I was born, advised my mother to raise me like any normal child. The child must be taught to fit in with society and not do silly things. The child must be taught to obey the rules at home. It is the only way for us to become socially acceptable.

Whenever I achieve something, my mother is just as happy as I am. When wonderful things happen to me, like when I had a role in the TV series Binnelanders, she is very proud of me.

My mother always makes time for me. I sometimes feel bad about this because I know just how busy she is. I am so grateful that I have such a friendly and loving mother because my mom is also sort of my secretary. When someone asks me to be a guest speaker, she checks her diary. If she has a day open, she enters my appointment.

We do almost everything together. When I have my hair washed and blow-dried on a Friday, she is there, and she joins me when I go for a manicure. I like to watch her kind of films with her, as long as they don’t have subtitles. Sometimes she watches a film of her choice and I go to one that I prefer. Afterwards we meet for coffee and discuss the films.

My mom makes sure that we have enough to eat and that I have nice clothes and shoes. I really battle to find shoes, because I wear a size one or two. Some days we are lucky and we find up to four pairs, but sometimes nothing.

When I address audiences as a motivational speaker, my mother’s tears start rolling. It was quite bad in New York. She was so stressed that she couldn’t take any photographs. Her hands were shaking too much.

My mother always says a prayer before I start my speech. She asks the Lord to be with me, but also with the people who listen, that they do not see me but rather our Heavenly Father, who has blessed me so abundantly.

My father

Wow, this is rather difficult. What I remember about my father is that he was warm and gentle. He was the one who always brought laughter into the house and who teased us and tickled us. He laughed often.

But my father was also very strict with me. He punished me when I was naughty, but I always knew that he did it out of love and that he just wanted the very best for me.

Over weekends I would pour him a whisky with lots of ice and some water. When he came home for lunch, I’d make him a sandwich and half a cup of black coffee with one sweetenerpill. He usually came home from the office at about five, because he said his family was the most important thing in his life.

My dad was painstakingly neat. He numbered his shirts so that similar ones would be packed away together. His number-one shirts were the white ones; number-two the coloured ones for the office, and so on. His office was also very neat.

Shortly before my dad died, he was reading a book, Innie skylte vannie Jirre. When we walked past the lounge, he’d call us to listen to extracts. And he would laugh a deep-belly laugh.

When my dad watched rugby on television, he argued with the players and the referee when he did not agree with something on the field. When his team won, he’d jump up and down in excitement.

I sometimes wish I was more like my dad who could tease people and crack jokes, but I’m not like that. My dad was the warmest, most loving and most gentle person. I will never forget him.

Uncle Sam

At first I found it very difficult to accept Sam du Plessis as my second father, but I also knew that he would never try to take the place of my real dad. The only thing that was important to me was that he made my mother happy.

Uncle Sam’s wife, Lana, died of cancer in 2002. About nine months after my dad died, he started coming to our house. Uncle Sam and my mother’s first “date” was a visit to the Bainsvlei cemetery, where his wife and my father are buried. They were both sad as both of them missed their partners who had died. About five years later, they got married.

Initially things were not that easy between Uncle Sam’s three daughters – Lizanne, Michelle and Anchen – and the three of us. But then I decided that because Uncle Sam made my mother happy, I would accept him. I invited Michelle for coffee, just the two of us. I wanted to ask her in a nice way whether she and her sisters would please accept us. We had a really good chat that day.

Over time we’ve all adjusted, and my new sisters accepted me for who I am. We’ve adapted to the new house, and in the past few years we’ve all been getting along well and are very happy. I’ve gained the loveliest three sisters.

Lizanne has the two cutest little kids. When she and her family stayed with us for a while, we got know each other really well. Sometimes she’d join me in my room for a chat. She was here when I turned 30, and after the party she and Anchen helped my mother clean up. It felt like we were a real family.

I think Uncle Sam cares for me as if I am one of his own children. We are a happy family, even though my dad and Uncle Sam’s wife have both died. I am always grateful to be part of a happy family. May our Heavenly Father grant other people this wonderful feeling. Better still, may all of us learn to be there for others who need help.

My sisters

My mother always used to dress me and my sister Marisa – who is only 21 months younger than I am – the same and tie our hair in ponytails. She always pulled our hair back very tightly.

Marisa and I did most things together. She mastered her school work easily, while I struggled most of the time. My mother always made me repeat my work. Sometimes I felt like a fool because I struggled so hard, but she explained to me that struggling was part of life. Some people struggle more than others, but that doesn’t matter. As long as they still to do their very best.

We played with our dolls and we swam. Those were good times. Over time my “twin sister” grew much taller while I grew much more slowly. Now Marisa has left home and is married. She and her husband, Pieter Steyn, have a little boy, Josua, and a baby girl, who was born in April 2017. Mia Shéri is named after our father (his first name was Jeremia) and me. It is the greatest honour. It was very hard for me when Marisa left home. But I know that she is very happy in London and that her husband makes her happy. Although I am happy for her, I still miss her every day.

When my youngest sister was born, I was so excited. When my mom came home from hospital with little Suzette, I had on a pink dress and Marisa a green one. My dad was carrying a grey carry-cot with the most beautiful little sister in it, fast asleep.

When Suzette, or Zettie as we call her, was bigger, we’d put her in a box full of toys. She loved sitting there among the toys. At school she took part in many activities, just like Marisa. She started playing the violin and later the piano. After that came the school choir, the Bloemfontein Children’s Choir, hockey and tennis.

After matric Zettie studied quantity surveying. Bit then she decided that it wasn’t what she wanted to do. She wanted to help people instead. But my mother told her that she had to complete her degree. After graduating, she moved to Cape Town to study speech therapy. This is what she does now. I miss her terribly, but I’ve flown to Cape Town on my own to visit her and her family. I just loved being able to fly there all on my own. Zettie and her husband moved to Johannesburg at the end of 2016, so now they live slightly closer to us.

Maybe my sisters should tell you how they experience me as their big sister.

Marisa

People hardly ever made negative remarks about Shéri, that I’m aware of. Maybe the reason was that my mother brought us up to believe that being different was something positive. We demonstrated that belief – for us Down Syndrome had no negative connotations – and I think people around us followed our example. I also think they knew how much we loved our sister. They wouldn’t dare say anything negative about her in front of us.

I remember one holiday when we visited family in Cape Town. Shéri and I were in primary school, I was about ten or eleven. One day we were playing outside with a group of kids, most of whom were English-speaking. We only spoke Afrikaans at home. So, although I could understand English, I didn’t really know the language that well.

One of the boys made the mistake of saying that Shéri was “retarded”. I was beside myself with anger. I didn’t really know what the word meant – I’d probably heard it in movies, where it’s said to mock someone. I just assumed that he was being nasty. I went into such a fighting frenzy that the grown-ups came to see what was happening.

My mother always handled these kinds of situations very calmly. She asked me what was wrong about saying that Shéri was “retarded”. Because it’s the truth. It really took the wind out of my sails. I tried to explain that this was not the way he’d meant it, but I don’t think I succeeded in getting my argument across. Even now it upsets me to think about that boy who had the audacity to say something nasty about my sister.

The only other incident I can remember (and only because my mother reminded me of it), was something that happened at choir practice. Suzette and I were both members of the Bloemfontein Children’s Choir, and we spent hours and hours at choir practice. Our friends at the choir became like family.

Most people who grew up in the 1980s and 1990s will remember the TV series, Môre is nog ’n dag, with Chris Burke who played Corky. He had Down Syndrome and was Shéri’s hero and role model. Our family enjoyed the series. I could identify with Becca, Corky’s sister in the series, and I’m sure my parents could identify with some of the things that Corky’s parents had to deal with. Shéri always said her biggest dream was to meet Corky some day. Or to act in a TV series!

When some of the choir kids started calling one another “Corkies”, I was very upset. They said it when someone was thoughtless or did something really stupid. I didn’t know how to handle it.

On the one hand, I didn’t want to be a spoilsport because I knew that they didn’t realise what they were saying. But on the other hand, I didn’t want to remain silent; they were obviously ignorant about people with Down Syndrome.

I can’t remember exactly how I reacted, but it was probably something like: “You do realise that I have a sister like that?” They never talked like that in front of me again.

Shéri’s disability never negatively affected my belief in God. The opposite is true.

The fact that I have Shéri as a sister probably strengthened my belief. Shéri is very close to God. She believes as the Bible tells us – like a child. We used to tell one another that if you wanted something very badly, ask Shéri to pray; she had a direct line to heaven. She still does. Her example of absolute, unwavering belief has always been something that I strive for.

I think it is completely different to grow up in a home where a disability has always been present. Shéri has always been there. I do not know life without her. I would never want to change her. She is my sister, just the way she is. A normal older sister would be someone else, she would not be Shéri. So it’s never entered my mind to be mad at God about her disability or to ask “why”. She is who she is. And we love her just the way she is. She is a gift from God. And we praise Him for her in our lives.

If someone ever asks me whether I ever felt rebellious or whether I ever wondered why this had happened to my sister, I can categorically say never. It is not something that happened to her. It is who she is. It’s the same as asking me whether I’m rebellious because I have a sister and not a brother.

Shéri has definitely influenced our attitude towards people with disabilities. I am more aware of those who are disabled and I do everything I can to make allowances for them. The fact that we had Shéri in our life also made us more aware of other kinds of disabilities. At her school there were children with all sorts of challenges. Every year we attended one another’s prize-giving ceremonies, concerts and other functions, so I have been exposed to many different disabilities.

Was it difficult to be part of a family that was “different”? No, I really don’t think so. But then, we do not know any other family life.

Our family certainly attracted attention, but I sort of enjoyed it – especially as a little girl. When our minister left the congregation, the three of us were asked to present him and his wife with flowers. Years later, when the Dutch Reformed church allowed children to take part in Holy Communion, the minister asked our family to join him at the communion table as an example of a family receiving communion.

But I never felt that Shéri received more attention from my father or mother than Suzette or me. My parents never wanted any of us to feel that one was more favoured than the other two. Ever since I can remember, my mother and I were very close. She always noticed if someone paid more attention to Shéri than to me. She would then try to compensate in some way. I never doubted her love.

Shéri was very close to my dad. He had a special way of handling her, and their bond was equally special. Even so, I never had any reason to believe that he favoured her in any way. I was very aware of his love for me.

My grandmother, on the other hand, blatantly favoured Shéri! She did not even try to hide it. Shéri got to sit on her lap when she told stories while Suzette and I had to sit on the floor. My granny’s budget for our Christmas presents was R50; there was no limit to Shéri’s presents. One year she even got a CD player!

My mother made it very clear that she did not agree with my granny’s way of handling the situation. My mother and my granny were very close. We would go for coffee at my granny’s almost every day. The only time I ever witnessed the two of them fighting was after yet another act of extreme favouritism. My mother was livid. But I knew, no matter what, my mom would always be there for me and she would do her utmost to make sure that I was treated fairly.

In his own way, my grandfather also tried to compensate for my granny’s behaviour. He never talked much. Aware of what was happening, he’d sometimes call me to his room and give me a slab of chocolate that I had to hide from my mother and Shéri. I regarded him as my grandfather and my grandmother as Shéri’s granny.

Other people – family, friends and the public – generally paid more attention to Shéri. She was held back a year before school, so the two of us started Sub A at the same time. I remember the woman from the post office gave Shéri a box of crayons to wish her good luck at school. I got nothing. I’d just turned six and it was difficult to understand why she was given a present and I wasn’t.

My mother also told me how Shéri and I once had to wait in the supermarket trolley while she quickly fetched something from a shelf close by. When she returned, I told her: “Mommy, someone gave Shéri a chocolate. And she didn’t even say thank you.” My frustration was even greater because Shéri hadn’t said thank you!

Years later, the fact that Shéri had caught so many people’s attention made me feel just a little ashamed. She often had to tag along to different places after school, like orchestra practice on a Friday afternoon. She listened while we practised, ran around outside and spent the free time in between with my friends and me.

One day I told my mother that I did not think it was such a good idea for Shéri to come to our orchestra sessions. My mom later told me that she’d been waiting for the day when I’d start feeling ashamed of my sister, and that she wouldn’t blame me if it happened. She did not, however, jump to conclusions and wanted to know more. When I told her that I was afraid people would think that I was bragging about my sister, my mother just smiled.

I think the most important thing that I’ve learned through having Shéri as a sister is that every healthy, normal baby is a wonderful gift. It is most certainly not a given. A healthy body and mind is an incredible blessing. It’s not something that anyone of us can ever earn; it really is a huge, undeserved gift from God.

With both my pregnancies I was acutely aware of the possibility that I might have a baby who did not live up to the world’s standards of normality. However, that did not cause any doubt in my mind that I wanted kids.

The tests to determine whether a baby has Down Syndrome have developed over the years. With my first pregnancy, a blood test could fairly accurately determine whether there was a chance of Down Syndrome. If this test was positive, an amniocentesis was performed. With my second pregnancy, new, advanced technology made blood tests 99% accurate.

I had the tests done during both pregnancies, the only reason being that I liked to plan my life. If I knew that the baby I was expecting was going to be disabled, my husband and I could prepare for what that entailed. The shock would be lessened and we could simply be excited about the new life. Please note: the test results would have made absolutely no difference to my decision to keep the baby.

I feel very strongly about aborting disabled foetuses. It breaks my heart to think that a mother would deny her baby the right to life, merely because the baby does not comply with her standards of a perfect child. I cannot begin to understand how a mother could do that.

I will never, ever consider abortion as an option. But if I were to fall pregnant again, I will most certainly have the test done. I think it is important for all parents of a child with Down Syndrome, or any other disability, to know what to expect so that they can prepare themselves as much as possible.

Suzette

Dearest little Shéri. My heart aches when I think about her. I love her so much.

I was born and grew up as part of a family full of love and security. Mom and Dad loved each other, and they loved us dearly, too.

My mother and father explained to me that Shéri was not like the rest of us – that she sometimes did things a little slower, that she struggled more than us to learn, and that she was a mongol. In those days, that term was acceptable. Only later were we told that it wasn’t nice to use that word. I always wondered what was wrong with it.

I never found it weird to have a sister with Down Syndrome. It’s all I have ever known. She took her role as the eldest sister so seriously and fulfilled it so beautifully. She taught me many things, like pulling your panties up high, over your navel, to make sure that no one would shoot you. And I believed her – she was my big sister, after all!

When I was a little older, at about primary-school stage, Shéri and I became close friends. Friends who also had some proper fights. We swam and often played “school”. I liked irritating her, I tickled her, made jokes, and when she had to do her homework, I pushed little notes under her door. One of these incidents led to concussion when I tried to get away after she’d opened the door and I bumped my head on the door frame.

When we were playing on a Sunday afternoon, I would tease her to the extent that she’d start yelling. Afraid that Mom would scold me, I’d say: “You’re not a baby, don’t yell like that.” But if anyone else tried anything similar with her, I’d be the first to object.

Shéri’s friends who came to visit were mostly from Martie du Plessis School. I played with all of them and never found any disability strange. I was very impressed with the kids in wheelchairs. Some of them could paint with their feet and do tricks with the wheelchairs.

As I grew older, and now in my job as a speech therapist, I’ve developed a great deal of empathy for parents of children with disabilities and for disabled people themselves. Maybe because I know a little about this journey.

Besides the things that Shéri taught me when I was small, she also helped me when I had to prepare for school tests. When my dad or mom were not home, she’d ask me questions to make sure that I knew my work. She especially helped me with Southern Sotho.

I don’t remember people ever staring at us because of Shéri. All our friends accepted her 100 per cent and never treated her as if she were “different”.

These days it has become difficult to go anywhere without people looking at her. I assume it’s because she’s had a role in Binnelanders, and because of her various TV interviews. I also stare at people whom I’ve seen on TV.

I remember one Friday evening when I was in my teens, some boys from Sentraal High School came to visit. One of my friends brought along his cousin. When he introduced us, they pretended that the cousin was disabled. Just then Shéri walked in, and both guys went pale with shock. They didn’t know about her. My friends and I all burst out laughing.

Laughing is something that our family is quite good at. Laughing for and with one another. So we could laugh for and with Shéri, and she could do the same.

My mother succeeded in maintaining an extremely good balance with all her children. She gave Shéri all the help and opportunities that she possibly could, while making sure that Marisa and I could fulfil our dreams. I never felt that one of us was favoured. My grandmother was a different story altogether, but I just laughed about it and was never jealous of the extra attention she gave Shéri.

Shéri often had to accompany my mother when she took me and Marisa to debating competitions or when we performed in the Bloemfontein Children’s Choir concerts, or to say goodbye when we left on choir tours overseas. I felt bad that she had to stay behind.

It was difficult for Shéri, too. But my mother assured us that one day Shéri would also find her place in the sun. Looking at her today, I know that she has indeed found it. These days my mother accompanies her almost every week when she addresses audiences and when she flies overseas to tell her remarkable story. It makes me so happy.

Over the years I’ve wondered how new people in my life would react to Shéri. Would they act normally or perhaps be a bit uneasy and not know what to say? It proved to be no problem for my husband, Jaco, although he’d never before had contact with disabled people. He’s a bit like me, so he immediately began teasing her and cracking jokes. It was difficult for me when we announced our engagement. Sometimes I was heartbroken knowing that dearest Shéri would never experience the wonderful feeling of being engaged and getting married.

The older I get, the more I want to protect her. I want to protect her against any hardships in life, in times of sadness, when she might feel that she doesn’t belong. But I can’t always do that. And that sometimes makes my heart ache.

Shéri’s story, as well as her strong belief, strengthens my own belief time and time again. God says in his Word that He looks after his children who praise his name. I sometimes wonder whether some people are jealous of Shéri’s success, people who do not have the faintest clue of the road travelled by her and my mother, and how difficult it sometimes was. But God still opens doors for them – every day, every week and every month – to share her story of hope with the world, because it is through Jesus Christ and extremely hard work that Shéri has achieved what she has. I also believe that the doors will keep on opening for as long as her testimony gives hope and remains to his glory.

The way my parents raised me

My mother has taught me to be independent. There was a time when I did not even know how to cook an egg. Now I can do that, and much more.

When my mother and Uncle Sam went away for three days at the beginning of 2017, I stayed at home all on my own.

I loved doing my own thing and looking after myself. I asked friends over and visited our wonderful neighbour, but I slept on my own and prepared my own, healthy food.

When I fly to Johannesburg, Cape Town or Durban to make a speech, my mother just leaves me at the drop-off zone at the airport. I know how to get my boarding pass. I read the notice boards and follow the arrows. The organisers of the conferences also drop me off like that afterwards. I go through security and have a cup of coffee at the Wimpy before I walk to the gate to wait for my plane. To travel like this on my own makes me feel very good about myself.

I remember how, every Christmas in Bloemfontein, we acted out the birth of Christ. Marisa was the narrator, and Mary. Suzette was the angel Gabriel, and baby Jesus, and I was Joseph. Marisa told us what to do. I, of course, had my own ideas as well.

My mother and father taught us that Christmas was not about the food or presents, but about God’s love for us, that He loved us so much that He sent his son Jesus to us. We celebrate this at Christmas.

During my childhood we had wonderful Christmases in Calvinia with one of my father’s brothers, Gerrit, and his wife, Louise. On Christmas eve we’d open our presents after Uncle Gerrit had read from the Bible, and we’d pray. We also sang Christmas carols. On Christmas day we went to church. One year, when Zettie was still small, our family sat in the front row of the church in Calvinia. All of a sudden the minister announced that there was a mothers’ room. He clearly thought that my mother should take the three of us there, but he obviously didn’t know that we were used to going to church. We knew all about keeping quiet and behaving in church.

The first cruise the Brynard family took was on the Sinfonia. My grandmother said she’d pay for me if my parents paid for themselves and my sisters. I shared a luxurious cabin with my gran, but the one my father, mother and sisters shared was tiny. If one of them stood, the others had to lie on their beds.

It was the holiday of a lifetime!

Christmas on board was the most wonderful ever. I will never forget that Christmas eve. Late that afternoon the rest of the family came to our cabin, my dad with the Bible under his arm. We read from the Bible, prayed and opened our presents, and then joined the other passengers.

The waitresses and young women who were responsible for all sorts of wonderful programmes at night, were sad. They were feeling homesick because it was Christmas. My father and mother noticed. They comforted them, hugged them and asked them about their families back home. Some of them even cried a little. But I think it meant something to them that, on that special night, my parents were almost like a second father and mother to them.